


bleach the sky

by JennaLee



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Character Death, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaLee/pseuds/JennaLee
Summary: There’s a photograph in Arin’s bedside table hidden beneath the peeling clapboard, sun-faded and creased. Big blue eyes, so blue you could drown in them.Photographs of people, even blurry strangers, are not on the list of approved personal belongings. It’s the one rule Arin breaks, the one thing he can’t let go of.





	bleach the sky

There’s a photograph in Arin’s bedside table hidden beneath the peeling clapboard, sun-faded and creased. Big blue eyes, so blue you could drown in them. 

Arin’s had it for as long as he can remember. He just can’t remember who it is, or why he has it, or who gave it to him. He only knows that it gives him a tight feeling in his throat when he stares into those eyes by the light of the moon, long after the lights are turned off at ten PM sharp.

Photographs of people, even blurry strangers, are not on the list of approved personal belongings. It’s the one rule Arin breaks, the one thing he can’t let go of. Every time he looks at it, he carefully tucks it back under the bottom of the drawer. If he’s ever caught, he can try to say that it had simply been there when he was moved into the room. They might even believe it.

Blue eyes haunt his dreams at night, the dreams that even the most powerful sleep aids can’t completely smother.

There are other dreams. A red sky, burning. Smoke and ash. Eyes stinging, chest strained. Screams and shouts. Helicopters and black planes filling the sky. A woman’s hand in his own, gripping him hard enough to hurt.

Then the grip goes slack. Arin looks down and the hand he’s holding is no longer attached to a wrist. The world goes white.

The blue-eyed man is yelling his name. Arin wants to go to him, to save him, but he can’t move. He can’t see. His eyes are on fire and his wrists are being cuffed behind his back. It feels so real.

It’s at that point that Arin always wakes up in a cold sweat.

He takes the red-and-white capsule on his nightstand, and falls back asleep.

**

A notification pops up on the computer screen.

_Your presence is required immediately in Tower 4, room 12H._

Arin stands up from his desk at once and heads down the corridor to the elevators. Tower 4 is connected to his Res by a long footbridge with a conveyer belt to speed transportation. Department H is the medical research lab. Arin’s never been in room 12, which, as far as he knows, is a conference room.

The fact that Arin works in military logistics, not medical research, doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t ask questions. If his presence is required, he must go, and there’s little point to wondering why. 

His supervisor nods as he passes, and Arin nods back, waits for approval. The supervisor hands him a key card for the H wing and checks to make sure that Arin has his equipment with him, including the regulation handgun and buzz baton.

“All clear,” she says. “You will not be resuming your duties in your office today. I will perform a shutdown of your station.”

Arin blinks once, thanks her, and opens the doors to the bridge.

**

“Good afternoon,” a smooth, cultured voice greets.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stands before him. Greying brown hair with severe widow’s peaks, black eyes like pools of ink. It’s the face that greets Arin from the small TV in his room every morning when everyone is required to stand for the anthem. It’s the face that features on the banners and posters all around the city.

The President. Ruler of The City. One of the most influential people in the new world. A war hero who had single-handedly killed more rebels than anybody else. His suit is simple, plain black, the copper phoenix sigil of The City pinned to his lapel. He is a humble man, a great man, and he doesn’t adorn himself with all of his war medals to make sure the glory is shared among everyone. At least, that’s what he claims.

“Sir,” Arin manages, inclining his head respectfully. “It is an honour to meet you.”

“And you,” the President smiles. “I’ve heard much about you lately. Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“Of course, sir. You are welcome.” Arin can barely _breathe_ , he’s so blown away. This is absolutely unheard of. Nobody in his Res has been honoured with a personal visit from the President before. And the President had heard of him? How?

“What do you see here?” the President asks. He moves to the side and gestures at the wall of windows. “Have a look and tell me.”

Arin steps forward. On the other side of the glass, there is a large, bare room with a medical exam table in the centre. A group of lab techs, men and women all in white, their noses and mouths masked, hover around the table. There’s a person laying there. Fully restrained. Straps around the ankles, across the thighs, across the chest, arms outstretched to lock the elbows and straps around each wrist.

“An insurgent,” Arin says.

“Very good.” The President stands beside Arin. Arin is tall but the President towers over him all the same. “This one was caught about a week ago. Our security team raided a hideout containing nearly fifty rebels. Unfortunately, some of them escaped. Others were deemed unsuitable for rehabilitation, and they have been properly disposed of. But several - including the subject you see here - may be of some use to us.”

Almost all people were now part of the new civilization, a peaceful society where everybody had a purpose and assigned duties. There was no longer any hardship for those in the City. Everyone was provided with food, shelter, and medical care, so long as they were useful in some small way in return.

_To serve is your duty. Obedience is happiness._

But there were rebels. Rebels who rejected peace and preferred to dedicate their lives to chaos. They lived outside the walled Cities that dotted the continent. They were criminals, who lived primarily by stealing, cheating, and lying. They disturbed the peace. They spread lies, led raids, kidnapped innocent civilians and dragged them away from safety. Probably to kill or torture them. 

The rebel scum had to be eliminated at all costs. It was for the greater good.

Arin studies the figure on the exam table. It’s a man, slight and pale, light brown hair, wearing Res-issued underwear and nothing else. No ID tat on his bicep, not even the faded pink scar like so many rebels had. They would take razors or knives and dig beneath their skin, pulling out their tracking chips and destroying them. Suspicious. No innocent person would have due cause to hide their whereabouts or their identity. 

The rebel’s chest is rising and falling rapidly as he struggles against his bonds. Any pity stirring in Arin’s heart is eclipsed by the comforting lessons of his training. Rebels like him were scum, a danger to public safety, a threat to the new civilization. They were given every chance to renounce their crimes. Any rebel could surrender himself to a Res or any government building, at any time. The government was most generous. 

“This one has yet to prove his use,” the President says suddenly, “but perhaps we can learn more about his potential today.” He’s watching Arin closely, observing him as he observes the rebel. The barest hint of a smile flits across his face. 

Arin says nothing. It seems safest that way.

“I’ve noticed,” the President begins after a long silence, “that you’ve been working diligently since you were rescued and rehabilitated.”

“Thank you, sir.” Arin looks at him warily.

“Your supervisors tell me that you are adapting well to your Res and exceeding all expectations in your new position. We value your contributions to the safety of our people.”

“Thank you. I am very grateful for the opportunities I have been given, sir.”

The President nods at the robotic response, clearly pleased. “As a reward for your hard work, I decided to assign you to a new job in addition to your existing duties.”

“I am eager to help, sir.” 

“Let me give you a quick briefing.”

Arin looks at the clipboard that the President holds out to him. He feels more comfortable with the lists and charts and spreadsheets. Analyzing data. It’s what he’s used to. This isn’t quite his area of expertise, but he can adapt.

“The rebel is not suited to physical labour,” the President says, tapping one of the charts. “He does not display adequate analytical skills or mathematical skills. He is unfit to be a leader of any kind, unfit for military service. He has no medical or scientific background. Simply no practical skills at all. We considered assigning him to very basic custodial duties, but…” He smiles with gleaming white teeth. “Would you agree that he is rather pleasant to look at?”

Many of the rebels Arin had seen were often covered in scars and burns, missing limbs, missing teeth. This one seemed healthy. Arin couldn’t see much of his face, but his skin was a lovely pale cream, smooth and nearly hairless all over. “I would agree, yes,” Arin says carefully. He’s not sure what that means or why it’s relevant.

“Look through his papers yourself and tell me what you think.”

Arin takes the clipboard. 

The rebel is surprisingly healthy, although every report gives the same troubling note about his rude behaviour. Frowning, Arin flips the pages. _Dangerous. Rebellious. Mouthy._ He had attacked a guard, attempted to steal medical instruments to use as weapons. During his first basic physical exam he had bitten a meaty chunk out of the doctor’s hand. He had tried to escape no less than four times, and refused to take food or water. They had hydrated him intravenously and force-fed him with a naso-gastric tube twice. And he’d only been a captive for a week.

“What do you think?” the President asks him.

Arin hesitates.

“The truth, now,” the President prompts.

“He’s…he appears rather unfit for anything, including basic custodial duties,” Arin begins slowly, terrified of contradicting the President. “He shows no signs of improvement, and he repeatedly insists that he does not want to be a part of our society.”

“Your recommendation?” Amusement swirls in the depths of those black eyes.

“ _My_ recommendation, sir?” 

“Yes. Tell me.”

Arin shuffles nervously. “I would advise that he be removed from society. As quickly as possible.”

“Euthanasia.”

“Yes.”

The reflection of the fluorescent light from the examination room gleams brightly off the President’s forehead. “That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course, sir. It is always a shame when an individual fails to recognize the greatness of The City.”

“Can you perhaps think of another option?”

“Sir?” Arin isn’t sure what he means.

There’s a very pregnant pause.

“Outside of The City,” the President finally says, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “people driven mad by their base needs resort to crime.”

“Yes, sir.” Arin knows that well enough.

“Sex is a fairly common need,” the President went on. “There are pills to take that can help dull the need, of course. Almost all of our citizens take them already, some of them daily.”

Medication was free and easy to obtain in The City. A pill for depression, a pill for anxiety, a pill for thinking improper thoughts or exhibiting disobedient behaviour. Arin himself took four pills every morning. He did not know what they were, but he knew they were for his own good. They had been prescribed by a medical expert of the City. And if he did not take them, he would be punished. And rightly so. 

_Disobedience is the antithesis of peace._

“But,” the President went on, “there are other options, for those special citizens who prove their obedience and their worth. Special ways to relieve that insistent animalistic urge.”

_Oh._

“I see you’re beginning to understand.”

“Yes, sir. That’s a good idea, sir.” Arin supposed that the dangerous subject could easily stay restrained and still fulfill his duty.

“I appreciate you saying so.” The President leans closer. “How would you like to be the one to introduce him to the tasks he will be performing?”

“Sir?” Arin is startled. He’s not in any way suited to training rebellious newcomers. “Which - which tasks would those be?”

The President smiles. “It is up to you to determine exactly what you would like him to perform. You will use him as you please. I think you will be able to figure it out. By all reports, you are not an unintelligent man. And you are still young. I am sure you have your share of the base needs of which we were speaking.”

A faint flush rises up Arin’s neck. He does take the pill that squelches desire every now and then, although he doesn’t seem to need it as much as some of the other men in his Res. He hasn’t taken it today. He hasn’t taken it in a long time.

“This is your reward,” the President says in a soothing, almost fatherly voice. “To show you how much I value your work. It is a rare gift. You ought to be grateful…for the chance to teach us more about our citizen training processes.”

Arin doesn’t understand. How will he be teaching the President anything?

The President sees the confusion on his face and smiles, steeples his fingers. “Do not be nervous. You are the best man for the job.” 

The first trickle of fear seeps up Arin’s spine. 

He’s too well-trained to argue, and he knows better than to try thinking for himself - but it does seem to him that this is rather unorthodox. This wasn’t how training worked. The subject was normally tranquilized and given the usual dose of meds to suppress his or her individuality, making them receptive to instructions. A dangerous insurgent should first be forced into submission through a series of zaps or strikes. A specialized team would oversee the training. It would take days, weeks, sometimes months.

And why here? Why were the lab techs staying, watching, observing?

_Something isn’t right._

The President’s eyes are shining brightly, as if he were struggling not to laugh at some secret joke. It’s like he knows something Arin doesn’t, like he’s using Arin for some purpose that he won’t tell him.

He squares his shoulders and forces himself to remember his orders. _It is not your duty to ask why. You must do what you are told. Obedience is happiness._

“Are you up for the task, Arin?”

Arin starts at the use of his name. To hear the President address him with such familiarity makes his fear grow stronger.

“Yes,” he says, because there is nothing else to say.

He half-expects a reprimand for the pause, but the President doesn’t seem to notice. “Remember your training,” the President says. “Remember that the subject will try to confuse you, trick you, say whatever he can to throw you off-balance.”

“I will remember.”

“The rebels are desperate. They are liars. They can say things that might disturb you. He might try to appeal to you emotionally, or plant false memories in your head that will frighten you.”

“Noted, sir.”

“You will not be swayed by your emotions?”

Arin barely remembers what emotions are anymore. “No, sir.”

“Good.”

The lab techs are undoing the subject’s restraints. Arin watches the small man rear up, lashing out. Quick as lightning, one of the techs darts forward and gives the rebel a zap in the ribs with his buzz baton. The rebel convulses in pain. His scream is so loud that Arin can hear it through the windows. 

By the time his spasmic jerking stops, the techs are safely out of the room. The rebel is alone, struggling to sit up on the exam table, looking around warily.

Arin feels something being placed in his hand. He blinks and looks down. They’re little packets of clear gel.

“We wouldn’t want him to be too badly injured,” the President says.

“No, sir,” Arin agrees, slipping them into the pocket of his uniform jacket.

“Good. Enter the room now. Do not forget your orders. And please,” the President smiles like a shark, too much teeth, “do enjoy your gift.”

“Thank you. Sir.”

Arin moved forward and slides his key card in the door. It opens with a smooth glide and he steps into a small anteroom. The door closes behind him. Even if the subject were to rush him, they would be trapped here together, and Arin is armed. The door has a window, made of what Arin presumes is one way glass. The subject is looking nervously at the techs and the President, but doesn’t seem to notice Arin standing in the anteroom.

Arin swipes his key card again. The rebel’s head whips around at the sound of the door.

He has clear blue eyes, huge with fear.

Arin’s stomach drops. 

“No,” the rebel says hoarsely. “ _No._ It can’t be you. It can’t be. They’re making me hallucinate. Not you. Please.”

He’s crazy, he’s not making sense. But why should he? Rebels were stupid, inferior, morally corrupt. But Arin suddenly feels all jumbled inside. His palms are sweating. He glances at the windows where he can see the President conferring with the lab techs. 

“Arin,” the rebel almost whispers. Arin’s heart skips a beat. _He knows my name._ How could he know?

_They can say things that might disturb you…_

It’s a test. Arin’s being tested somehow. This isn’t just a reward.

The subject is moving toward him, slowly. Like Arin’s a wild animal.

It occurs to Arin that he has not said anything yet. He clears his throat. “Get back. Go sit on the table. Do it now.”

The rebel stops dead. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asks hoarsely.

“You are one of the rebels captured in a recent raid. Your assigned number is 9030, but you have yet to be tagged.”

The rebel is shaking his head. “It’s me,” he says desperately. “It’s me. Ross.”

“Your name is irrelevant,” Arin tells him bluntly. “I am here because the President, in his generosity, has decided to give you once last chance.”

“What the fuck did you do to him?” the rebel screams at the windows, in the direction of the President. “You fucking bastard!”

“Please do not raise your voice. Do not verbally abuse the leader of our City, or any of the generous medical staff that have rescued you and helped you.”

“ _Rescued me?”_

“If you continue to shout, I will have no choice but to silence you by force.”

Ross’s eyes widen. He looks at the weapons at Arin’s belt. “Are you going to kill me, Arin?” he asks in a small voice.

“I do not have the authority to make that decision. I will act as the President orders me. You would be wise not to struggle.”

“Arin. _Arin_. Please…” The rebel presses himself against the wall. His knees are shaking. Arin can see the lab techs scribbling notes as they observe their interactions. 

He knows what his duty is.

“Please sit down on the examination table,” Arin tells him again. Maybe being more polite would sway him.

“Are you going to strap me down again?”

“That depends entirely on your behaviour.”

Ross begins to edge towards the table. “They killed her,” Ross says hoarsely. “That asshole, that ugly balding guy in the black suit out there - ”

Arin bristles. “The President is a great man. You ought to be grateful that he didn’t shoot you on sight. Instead he’s giving you a chance to redeem yourself. A chance to become a better person. You are being given free food and shelter and - ”

“He killed _Holly_!” Ross shouts at him, his knees giving way. He collapses onto the floor. Tears spill down his cheeks as he starts to sob, great heaving gasps of breath. 

Something in the back of Arin’s mind gives him pause.

That name. _Holly._

It was almost…familiar.

Arin steps forward and grabs the rebel by the shoulder roughly. He was playing some sort of trick on Arin. A mind game. The President had warned him. 

“The rebels who were not cooperative were all killed,” Arin explained firmly, fighting to keep calm. “It was done quickly and humanely.”

“Liar, liar, fucking _liar_ ,” Ross whimpers. “I saw her die. I saw what he did.” He jerks his head at the President. “He tortured her to death. For _fun._ ” 

“What you thought you saw - ”

“Where are the others?” Ross demands. Arin can’t meet his appealing blue eyes without feeling a queer ache in his chest. “Where’s Dan? Suzy? Brian? _Where are they?_ ”

“I don’t know those names.” A pain stabs him in the chest suddenly, piercing and bright, but it’s gone as fast as it came. He breathes in slowly. “If they were captured in the raid - ”

“I bet you fucking killed them too, oh, my God.” Ross isn’t talking to Arin; he’s still staring at the President. “You better kill me next, you bald bastard, and you better do it quick, or I swear to God I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”

That was really too much. Arin had to act.

“No!” Ross tries to twist away as Arin grabs him by the wrist. Arin wonders if the rebel will try to strike him. Ross struggles harder until Arin gets the baton out of its holster and turns it on with its characteristic humming noise. With his thumb he pushes the setting up to five. 

He gets a good shot in, right to the back of the subject’s hand. The baton crackles and Ross howls, jerking violently in Arin’s grip. Arin leaves it on, passes it near Ross’s face to give him a good look at the illuminated tip. 

“Don’t,” Ross begs, going still. “Arin, please, please don’t, not again. Please.”

The buzz baton was very useful in training. Those who felt its sting on the higher settings did not soon forget it. The highest setting was ten, and some subjects begged for death instead of facing it at that power. Even the lowest setting packed a punch. 

Ross, still twitching, allows himself to be pulled to the exam table.

“Sit,” Arin orders, and Ross does, shuddering. He looks at Arin and bites his lip. It’s cute, but Arin is having none of it. “You have demonstrated no useful skills to serve a purpose in The City. You might have been assigned to some lesser duty, but your attitude is so poor that my superiors feel rehabilitation might not be enough to cure you of it.”

Ross’s lip curls. “Your _superiors_ ,” he repeats under his breath, closing his eyes.

Arin frowns briefly. “You should be pleased to know that there is one last chance for you. A personal service position.”

“The _fuck_ does that mean?” Ross’s eyes shoot open. “What are you saying?”

Something is stirring inside of him. Arin can’t figure out what it is, but it’s making him feel restless, even anxious. 

_The photograph,_ his mind whispers. _Remember the photograph._

He knows why this man made him feel so off-kilter. He resembles the man who’s photograph Arin cherished secretly. A coincidence. Many people had that same light brown hair and blue eyes. The picture was so worn that it was difficult to see the person’s features. It could be anyone. Anyone.

Ross is watching him curiously. “Arin?” he asks quietly. “Arin, is that you under there?”

A sharp pain shoots through Arin’s body. He nearly gasps. It’s a memory. Pain. Shocking pain. Buzz batons shoved into his stomach, held against his legs and feet until he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Pain in his arms as needles were injected into him over and over. 

“Arin!” Ross looks like he’s about to cry again. 

Arin takes a deep, steadying breath. Thinking about his duties gives him focus. What is happening to him? He decides the safest course is to parrot the President. “People driven mad by their base needs resort to crime. For the safety of our community, The City provides medication and other solutions to the basic need for sex.”

Ross’s mouth opens and closes. He swallows hard. “They’re going to make me a sex slave, is that it?”

Arin continues as if Ross hadn’t spoken. “You may serve The City by…by helping fulfill that need for various officials as a reward for their good work.”

What little colour Ross’s face had was disappearing. He sways visibly. Arin puts out a hand to steady him and Ross flinches from his touch.

“And you…what are you going to do to me, Arin?” It looks like it’s hurting him to look Arin in the eye. “What did they tell you to do?”

“I have been assigned to help introduce you to the tasks you will be performing.”

Silence. A long silence. Ross looks like he’s barely breathing. 

“You want to break me,” Ross whispers, his eyes going to the President. “You…you’re a sick man. You think this will destroy me, don’t you? Making him rape me while you get your rocks off by watching it happen? What are you trying to prove?”

“He can’t hear you.” Arin says dubiously. Ross is crazy, crazy as the rest of the rebels, that much is obvious.

“Oh, like this whole room isn’t bugged, just like the rest of this goddamned slave city,” Ross snarls. “He can hear me. I want him to hear me.”

The President’s face is a mask. Arin feels certain that he can’t hear. Ross is emotional, crazy, totally mistaken. But perhaps that’s not entirely his fault. The war had been rough. Many people had some pretty serious mental health issues. Without The City’s help, Arin would probably be just as insane.

“He’s doing this to torture me,” Ross groans. “Don’t you see?”

“It’s not the President’s fault that you haven’t been able to behave yourself.”

Ross barks out a laugh, or maybe it was a sob. “They must have put you through hell. God.”

“The City rescued me from certain death.”

Ross hesitates only for a second before lifting his hand. Arin tenses, but Ross only lays his palm gently against Arin’s forearm. “What did they do to you when they first brought you here?”

“I was assigned duties in the military logistics department at - ”

“No,” Ross says, and there’s an edge to his voice. “Your first day here, what happened then?”

Unnerved, Arin tries to think back. It had been years ago now. He remembers his first day of work, remembers being moved into his Res, remembers getting his ID chip and thanking the nurse with a smile. He can’t recall his first day in The City at all. Or his first week. Or his first month….

“Think,” Ross whispers. “Just think. They brainwashed you, Arin. They pumped you full of chemicals to make you forget how they fucking tortured you. You tried to get away. You were with me, and - and others…you tried to protect me. You nearly died fighting them.”

“Stop,” Arin tells him roughly. His head is starting to hurt. “These lies are ridiculous.”

“They killed your friends. And they - they killed my wife. They probably killed your wife, too. The people you work for. The President.”

“I’m not married.”

_Black-painted nails, pale inked skin, clutching his hand. Warm blood splattering across his legs, that sickly coppery smell._

Arin doesn’t understand. And it shouldn’t matter. He’s allowing himself to become distracted. Why is he continuing to converse with the rebel? He’s here for a reason. He has stated this reason, and now it’s time to take action. What’s stopping him? This is his duty, assigned by the President himself.

“What will he do to you if you don’t obey him?” Ross presses. 

Arin frowns. “Why would I not obey the President?” _Obedience is happiness._

“Why would you not rape me?” Ross’s small mouth twists. “Yeah, why not, right? No big deal.”

A brief flare of nausea hits Arin at the word _rape_. Rape was a crime. This was sanctioned by the President himself. It couldn’t be rape.

A light kindles in Ross’s eyes as he studies Arin’s face. He lifts his chin and says, his voice thin, “You are in there, aren’t you? Some part of you is still human. But what does it matter? Even if I made you remember somehow, it’ll only be worse for you. Because they’ll still force you to do this. And they’ll punish both of us.”

Arin swallows hard. The President is watching. The lab techs are all watching. Arin can’t afford to hesitate much longer. The rebel is right. If he did not do his duty, if he refused to serve, refused to obey, he would be - they would -

_White walls, soundproofed walls. Drains in the floor. A steel door. A single human fingernail embedded in the concrete wall._

Arin surges forward and grabs Ross by the waist, pulling him roughly off the table and pressing their bodies together. Ross cries out at the sudden movement and grabs hold of Arin to steady himself. Arin slides his hands down to Ross’s ass, getting a good handful and squeezing hard. Ross shudders in Arin’s grip and turns his face away.

“You are going to serve me.” The words come out in a husky tone that doesn’t sound much like Arin’s usual voice. “I’m going to fuck you.”

Ross doesn’t answer. He can’t seem to look at Arin, or anyone. With his face turned to the side, Arin gets a good look at his lovely sharp jaw line, the delicate pink shell of his ear, his neck the colour of cream. Arin’s unease mixes with a new feeling, growing inside him. Warmth, pooling deep in his belly. Desire. Lust. 

Arin runs his hands up the pale expanse of chest. It had been a very long time since he had touched another person like this. Ross smells a little like sweat, a little like smoke, and it’s so _different_ from the sterile smells of The City. His skin is warm to the touch and so soft beneath Arin’s palms. 

Arin’s instincts take over and he leans in to mouth at Ross’s throat. He tastes just like he smells. Smoke and salt. Arin groans, enjoying all the pleasurable sensations he’s experiencing. 

“Arin,” Ross whispers when he feels the scrape of Arin’s teeth. “You don’t have to hurt me. Go slow. Please don’t make this hurt more than it has to.”

The rebel’s plaintive tone sends a mixture of feelings through Arin. It’s been so long since he’d taken his pleasure of anyone like this, and it would be sweet if he could make Ross feel pleasure too, make him moan and gasp, that cute mouth hanging open as he pants and gasps out Arin’s name. But it’s equally appealing to think of making it hurt, showing this mouthy rebel scumbag how far his attitude and his lies would serve him here in The City. Take him down a peg. Humiliate him. Bend him over the table and just _fuck_ him.

_Rape him, you mean._

“Arin?”

“Stay still.” Arin’s voice wavers. He catches it, controls it. He’s in charge here. “Just stay still.”

Ross gives a sharp jerk of his head. 

Arin looks the subject up and down. He leans in and nips at Ross’s pulse point, takes the soft earlobe into his mouth, noses at the nape of his neck. His hair is silky-smooth and slightly damp with nervous sweat. For the first time, Arin notices the scars on Ross’s back, a faint latticework of raised white lines. He traces his finger along one. It seemed a shame to leave scars on such a pretty body. Whip marks, or maybe a cane or switch. “You were hurt.”

“I barely remember the pain.” Ross’s voice is flat. “I was half out of my mind. They were hurting her and I - I killed one of them. I wanted to die. I wish I had.”

“You barely remember? Drugs?” They’re common outside the walls. Rebels would huff chemical waste, drink homemade alcohol, stumble around like savages.

Ross makes an ugly noise that might have been a laugh and doesn’t answer.

Arin thumbs over the subject’s nipples and watches goosebumps break out on the man’s thin forearms. Arin takes one between his fingers and pinches lightly. Ross shivers and sucks air through his teeth.

“Who’s _they_? And who were they hurting?” Arin asks him idly as he watches the nipple harden at the touch.

“Your big hero over there,” Ross mutters. “Him and your _superiors._ Your brainwashed buddies.”

“If they were hurting somebody, they had a good reason. She was probably dangerous.”

Ross’s hands ball up and his eyes fill with fire, but as quickly as it had come, the storm passes. He slumps. “Holly didn’t do anything. She never wanted to kill anybody. She cried even when we had to take somebody down before they killed us. She tried to keep us all safe…she tried so hard to keep _you_ safe. She cried for days when they took you, Arin.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Of course you don’t. Why do you care? Why don’t you just fuck me and get this over with?” Ross spits. Despite the fact that he’s obviously defeated, he’s still like a little ball of gasoline ready to explode from the smallest spark. Arin doesn’t know whether or not to admire that.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of the white underwear they’d given him. Ross tenses up and Arin prepares to grab the baton again, but to his relief, Ross makes no move to fight him. His chest hitches as Arin draws the fabric down his thighs, but he steps out of the leg holes without being prompted. Naked, he’s even more gorgeous. Arin’s used to showering with the other guys in his Res - private bathrooms are a luxury that ordinary citizens like Arin are not entitled to - and none of them are anywhere close to being this _pretty_. The President had been right to consider Ross for sexual service. 

Colour blooms high on Ross’s sharp cheekbones. 

“Turn around,” Arin tells him. He suddenly doesn’t want to look at Ross’s face, pretty as it is. “Put your hands flat on the table.”

Ross turns slowly. The position makes him face the window where the President is watching, arms folded across his chest, a smirk on his pale lips. Ross’s own lips move soundlessly, forming a word Arin can’t make out. The President turns to one of the lab techs and says something. It must be a joke, because they all begin to laugh. Arin can’t see the way the redness spreads over Ross’s face but he sees his fists clench, his knuckles whiten.

Arin nudges Ross’s spine with the handle of his baton. “I said, put your hands flat on the table.”

Ross’s back shakes. He bends forward to obey. 

The sight before Arin is a magnificent one. Ross is skinny, but the way he’s standing accentuates his curves, showing off the swell of his hips and the roundness of his ass. Arin places his palms on the pale smooth cheeks, kneading them firmly before spreading them open. 

Ross makes one small, muffled noise. 

“Very nice,” Arin can’t help but remark. He rubs a thumb over the pink hole and it tightens up in response. A delicious heat flares deep in Arin’s groin and his cock gives another throb. He continues rubbing the pad of his thumb against Ross’s hole as his other hand fumbles with his button and fly. 

Ross hears the sound of the zipper and tries to straighten up, his head twisting over his shoulder. He’s in a sudden panic. “You’re not - you’re not just going to put it in me, are you? Do you have lube?”

“Hands flat on the table,” Arin snaps back. It’s easier to maintain his sense of authority when Ross is being properly submissive and not trying to manipulate him with his lies. “If you can’t stay still I will restrain you. Arch your back for me. Spread your legs. And get up on your toes.” 

“Arin, _please_ \- ”

Arin turns on his buzz baton and Ross makes a little yelp like he’s been burned, even though Arin’s made no move to actually shock him.

“I can think of a few creative ways to use this,” Arin threatens. He switches the baton off and nudges the tip between Ross’s cheeks. 

“Jesus, Arin,” Ross whimpers, but he obeys this time. He slides his legs apart, raises up on the balls of his feet. The muscles in his calves flex and tighten. He can’t arch his back very far, but he tries his best. 

Arin thinks he looks like an animal in heat, presenting himself. That thought makes his hand wander to his own cock and he begins to stroke it slowly. Heat prickles across his skin and his need intensifies. Arin takes a step towards Ross, his free hand sliding firmly up the length of his back. The room is cool and Ross is naked, but he’s sweating. Sweating and shivering all at once. Arin’s sweating too, his shirt damp under the arms. His cock is hard and red. When he speeds up his strokes, a bead of pre-come forms at the tip. Arin gives himself a squeeze and leans forward to rub the sticky-wet head over Ross’s hole.

“No,” Ross chokes, flattening himself against the table. “I _can’t_ , Arin, you’ll rip me open.”

Arin has no intention of going in dry. He rubs Ross’s back again. “I told you, I will not harm you unless you fight me.”

Ross visibly sags in relief as Arin places the packets of lube on the exam table where Ross can see them. Arin opens the first one, empties it in his palm, rubs it over himself. It gets him pretty slick already but he still opens a second and repeats the process. The third, he tears a corner off of and drizzles it over Ross’s waiting hole. Ross’s breathing gets a little louder as Arin rubs the lube up and down his cleft. 

“Feels good?” Arin asks him, honestly curious.

“What do you care?” Ross shoots back, sounding bitter and resigned.

“I don’t,” Arin answers after a moment of confused reflection. He isn’t sure why he even asked. “It doesn’t matter if you like it. It is necessary. You will learn how to enjoy it in time.” If Ross went through the rehabilitation program and took the medication offered to him, he would come to love servicing his superiors. Those who served and obeyed were always generously rewarded.

“I used to imagine us, together.” Ross murmurs under his breath. “Those days after we had to run, while we were in hiding, when you held me all night, when we almost kissed…I used to think maybe, one day…things would go back to normal, and…you and I, and Holly could…”

He trails off. The room goes silent.

Arin clamps down on his strange intrusive thoughts. He strokes his dick with an obscene wet noise and hesitates only for a second before lining himself up and tilting his hips forward. Ross isn’t at quite the right angle, so Arin adjusts. He shuffles his feet forward and smacks Ross’s hip. “Up. Hold your ass up higher for me.”

Ross braces himself on the table and does as he’s told. Arin keeps one hand on his dick, his hips pushed forward, moving with Ross. Ross manages to stand a little taller, fully on his toes, and when their bodies align in just the right way, the head of Arin’s cock slips inside.

They both make a surprised noise. Arin hadn’t been prepared for how good this would feel. Ross is _tight_ , his little ring of muscles just squeezing at Arin’s dick like a vice. Arin keeps going, keeps sliding inside, and beyond the ring of muscles, Ross’s body feels like hot slick velvet. 

“Oh, my God.” Ross fights to stay still, though Arin can feel how he wants to drop down flat on his feet to help him relax, help him loosen up. “Slow, Arin, just slow, please, you’re really big.”

It’s not for Ross’s sake that Arin continues to press inside at an agonizingly slow pace. Arin has to give himself time to adjust, so he won’t disappoint the President by wasting this gift by reaching orgasm in less than thirty seconds. Ross calling his dick big doesn’t help. It _does_ look huge, disappearing into Ross’s tiny body inch by inch. Ross is stretching so wide around him, and taking it so good. Arin curls his hands around Ross’s hips and gently strokes his thumbs over Ross’s skin.

By the time his hips are flush against Ross’s ass, they’re both gasping for breath. Arin tears his eyes away from Ross’s heaving back and looks over at the windows. Many of the lab techs seem to have left, but the President has not moved. 

Their eyes meet, and Arin feels something _pull_ , way in the back of his mind. A surge of powerful hatred that nearly takes his breath away. The backs of his eyes feel intensely hot.

It’s over as quickly as it comes. Arin turns his attention back to the task at hand.

“You’re being very good,” he tells Ross. He pulls out slowly and thrusts back in again, getting a feel for it. He does it again, and again, pulling out a little more each time, until he finds his rhythm. Ross’s body is opening up nicely for him. He’s still tight but much of the initial resistance is gone.

“Slower,” Ross pleads again.

Arin groans and doesn’t bother answering. Instead he tightens his grip and pumps harder, fucking Ross as deep as he can. It’s all Ross can do to hold on and stay upright. He’s so small and fragile…but that was a deception, wasn’t it? Arin remembers the way he’d lunged at the lab techs. 

“Fuck,” Ross cries out. “Fuck, Arin.”

Arin likes hearing Ross say his name. He lets out a growl and fucks Ross even harder.

Ross holds out for a minute longer, but finally lets the force of Arin’s thrusts push him over onto the exam table. He ends up with his stomach and chest pressed against the sterilized grey plastic padding. Arin’s strong enough to keep his hips lifted up, to keep his ass high enough for Arin to keep fucking into it. Ross turns his face to the side, away from the windows. Away from the President and his laughing black eyes. Arin pushes himself balls-deep and pauses as he catches a glimpse of Ross’s face. His eyes are screwed shut and his forehead is creased. As Arin watches, he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites on it, like he’s trying to stifle his own noises. 

“You deserve this,” Arin says, fighting back the guilt, the hint of the dark sweet horror hidden just behind the barred doors of his mind. “This is your duty. Serve and obey.” He wrenches his hips back in one sharp movement, almost pulling out completely. When he slams back in, Ross makes a muffled cry.

“You like it,” Arin tells him. “You should thank me for this. Say it.”

“Arin - ”

Arin fucks into him again, and again, hard enough to rock the exam table so hard that its metal supports begin to squeak. Ross gasps and grabs on tighter. 

“Say it!”

“Thank you,” Ross sobs once. “Th-thank you, Arin.”

“Thank the President too, for giving you one last chance.”

Ross stays silent this time.

Arin seizes him by the back of his hair, wrenches his head back. Ross grunts in pain.

“Thank him,” Arin insists. “Look at him and say, ‘Thank you, sir.’”

The President is holding something in his hand. Holding it up like he wants them to see. As Arin watches, he lets the item unfurl. It’s a shirt. Grey, with a big graphic. At first Arin mistakes the crimson splotches for part of the graphic, but then he realizes his mistake. There’s a word, a band name. _Rush._ Seeing it stirs up some memory in the back of Arin’s head. Tall, lanky, a mop of curly brown hair, a sweet voice singing, talking, laughing…a voice from his dreams.

Ross opens his eyes. He sees what the President is showing him. Arin feels his body tighten up around his cock, almost painfully. His mouth opens and closes.

The President is waiting for Ross‘s response. Arin hurriedly grabs his baton again and lays it against Ross’s spine threateningly.

“Use your gun instead.” Ross’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a mile away. “Shoot me. Fucking - kill me. I won’t do it. I can’t take this, I can’t do it, I can’t - ”

The President leans forward and presses a button. His voice crackles to life over the speakers that Arin didn’t even know were there. What he says makes no sense to Arin.

“Be careful, Mr. O’Donovan. I spared him, as I did you. My men will only treat him kindly if you behave yourself.”

“Fuck,” Ross exhales. “Th-thank you. Thank you. Sir. Please don’t kill him. I’ll do anything…”

“I figured as much,” the President says. “And I look forward to seeing you later tonight, so you can make good on that promise. You can tell me everything about the rebels that escaped. Or else it will be Dan’s turn to endure what you have, only I’ll make it worse. I’ll let every civilian who had a hand in your capture take him, while you watch. Maybe I’ll summon Arin again to join in.”

Ross breaks completely, and starts to sob. 

Luckily Arin’s already getting close. Ross feels like a rag doll now, like Arin’s fucking a warm corpse. Ross stays limp and just takes everything Arin gives him as the tears stream down his face.

“Dan,” Ross murmurs faintly. “Danny, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was all my fault…”

Arin speeds up as he nears his climax. Ross’s rambles turn to groans as his battered body is fucked into the examination table. Arin’s moaning too, his mouth dry, his head spinning. He makes his final, brutal thrusts and slams himself in to the hilt as he comes. 

Peace and bliss. Arin is floating.

He’s done his duty. Obedience is happiness, the highest form of happiness he will ever know. The pills he’s required to take help with that.

When he pulls out, a dribble of thick white cum spills from Ross’s hole, which is somewhat less tiny than before. Arin can see the deeper pink inside, can see his own cum in Ross’s ass. The sight makes him dizzy. Hurriedly, he tucks himself back in his pants and fumbles for the zipper.

They’re both silent for a long time. Arin is awaiting further instructions.

Slowly, wincing, Ross stands up and turns around.

“I love you,” Ross tells him softly. “I will always love you. They can’t take that away from me. They can’t destroy what we had. No matter what, I love you. And I’ll get you out of here one day, if they don’t kill us… ”

Arin tries to ignore the man’s rambling. Ross’s words leave him feeling shaken inside. He tries to put a name to the feeling. He comes up with _despair._

But he’s a law-abiding citizen, a lucky man with his own sleeping quarters and three meals a day, all given to him generously by the good will of his superiors. His life is so good. He takes his medication in the morning and goes about his duties placidly. He’s a placid, obedient, happy person. As placid as everyone else in his Res. 

Arin thinks briefly of the smiling nurse, coming around his office with her tray of little paper cups. Little paper cups filled with red-and-white capsules, enough for all…

“I miss you,” Ross whispers. “I miss you so much. I forgive you.” A single tear trickles down his cheek. 

The lab techs are entering the room, the ones in front keeping one hand on their batons, the two in the back keeping their hands on their guns. Ross is forced to lay back on the exam table. The straps from underneath are brought out and buckled across his body. Ross’s chest is heaving, but he doesn’t fight. He stares up at the lab techs, then turns to look at Arin again. 

They make eye contact one last time before Ross is wheeled away.

 _I miss you too,_ a desperate voice screams from deep within his mind. 

“Arin,” the President greets him warmly as Arin passes through the anteroom and enters the observation room once again. “You’ve done so well. I may have need of you later tonight. Why don’t you return to your Res and get some sleep?”

“Yes, sir.” Arin _is_ tired. He appreciates being allowed to have a nap.

The President is a great man, a generous man.

Arin’s eyes go to the bloody shirt on the floor. For a second he forgets how to breathe.

Any lingering doubts dissipate in a heartbeat as Arin takes the pills the lab tech brings him. He holds out his arm when they bring a needle. Euphoria swirls through his veins, sweet ignorant bliss. He doesn’t have a wife, he never had a best friend, he never loved the man with the big blue eyes…

His sleep is untroubled.

When he wakes, the photograph is gone. 

Arin doesn’t miss it.


End file.
